It Burns, Still Softly
by JadeCrescent Fallen
Summary: Silent Hill 4. Henry is taken by Walter into a nightmare of his own...and victimized by the killer in a way Henry didn't think possible. WalterxHenry, NC lemon, yaoi, OneShot


**Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill 4: The Room.  
**_**Bolded Italicized lines **_**are flashbacks.  
**_Italicized lines _**are thoughts.  
****Don't forget to review when you're finished reading!**

**XXX**

**The Author Speaks: **Seeing as how this is a Silent Hill fic, don't expect it to be sunshine and daises. Walter's a serial killer, for god's sake! He's not going to treat Henry gently. Going on that same thought, there's not going to be any guro (a.k.a. graphic, bloody, violent sex to the extreme, like someone ripping open someone's stomach during sex, or screwing an eye socket, or shoving knives up asses and cutting them open while screwing them), but Henry will still feel some pain during the course of this one-shot. Just to warn you!

Also, for those who haven't played/beaten The Room, this fic contains spoilers for a few of Walter's victims, namely who the last few are.

**It Burns, Still Softly**

Henry Townshend's eyes snapped open. He waited groggily for his vision to adjust to the dim of his unlit room before he stood up, yawning obnoxiously. He looked to the windows. There was nothing particularly interesting out in the darkness. He closed his baby blue eyes and realized he hadn't gotten any sleep at all, for it had been dark when the photographer, and now victim of an endless horror story, had snuggled in his bed, possibly the only thing comforting about his apartment.

His nose was very much stuffed as it normally got when he lay down. The thick air made him woozy. Judging that he'd suffocate if he didn't clean out his nostrils, he stood up and shuffled over to his door. It let out its normal ghoulish creak when he left. He grabbed a tissue that was lazing on the kitchen counter and blew into it, unclogging two holes that he knew weren't going to lead him to hell. Still, the air remained heavy on his person, not helping his tired body. The cuts and bruises decorating his skin were starting to burn again, and he prayed that he could pass out for at least another hour to make the irritation go away. The wall clock ticked, to his relief, patiently on the wall.

Henry read the time. "Eleven-thirty?!"

That wasn't possible. He had passed out around five, but he felt like he hadn't slept a wink. This, though blissful for some people, burdened him greatly in knowing that he had no energy but could not return to Eileen without being able to defend her.

No, not he couldn't. He _wouldn't_. The woman was precious to him. In the weeks he had spent watching her, safe in her apartment, he had prayed to God everyday that none of the wretched devils he was forced to deal with would knock at her door...and ironically, they did literallyknocked at her door.

Funnily enough, he had always hoped that he could make contact with her, be with her, touch her and make sure she was tangible. Now that he was with her, a new responsibility had been brought on him. It was like hell was spitting in his face. 'Sure, you can be with the girl, but only if she's forced to go through the same torment as you.'

"What the hell did I do to deserve this?" Henry had always been a Good Samaritan, helping old ladies cross the street and rescuing cats from trees, all that mumbo-jumbo. If hell had anything to torture him about, it should have been on why he didn't settle down for a comfortable photography job out in the Caribbean.

He flopped down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling and the wires that the fan had been connected to before it crashed into his apartment floor. It was bad enough that he couldn't leave his room; now his room was stuffy and the windows wouldn't open for him to allow any kind of relief. _I guess I must have really screwed up in my last life, and I'm paying for it now. _

A harsh laugh escaped his chapped lips. He shouldn't even be joking about his last life. How many times did he feel like he'd died in those worlds? Each new monster he faced brought with them a new line of torture that could make him collapse to his knees in breakdown and sob...then again, he had already done so. Several times, in fact. He was a man, but a man be inhuman if he didn't crumble from the ungodly butchers that were bestowed upon him.

Even his own apartment had turned against him. The walls moaned in unseen agony. The devices preached Satan's sermons, poisoning Henry's blood, weakening him. He found no comfort in returning to his place of living now that Eileen was with him, Frank Sunderland had stopped hanging outside his door, and just recently his room wasn't giving him the sustenance he needed.

Did that mean he'd have to sleep in the worlds now? He'd have to learn to be a light sleeper, otherwise a six-foot tall murderous patient woman would hatchet him to death, severing his head from his body and chewing on it while Eileen feebly smacked it with her purse, screaming and attracting those annoying insects that would lay eggs in his rotting corpse and feed off his sinews. Perhaps the mushroom tentacles would grow through him, swaying with no purpose other than to be disgusting.

Henry stared down at his bloodstained clothes and grimy hands. A permanent stench of copper had soaked into his skin. He longed to get rid of it, for the very scent of blood attracted those creatures. Standing up, he walked past his kitchenette and into his bathroom.

He had gotten used to the unsightly state of his once pristine washroom, from the shattered mirror, to the cement-filled hole that had once been his only means of escape from his unfair oppression, to the seal that now surrounded it, to the tub crusted over with blood. How he desperately wanted to take a shower, get rid of the odor and the painful reminders of his deathly struggles. He swore he still had Cynthia's blood underneath his fingernails. _How _many weeks ago had her death been?

Taking a chance, Henry tried the faucet. Expecting blood, he sighed in relief when clear, cold water came out of the faucet in a plentiful and inviting stream. Barely remembering how to work his own shower, he eventually found the button to push. This time, water came from the shower's nozzle, warming rapidly. It beat against the layer of dried blood like it was permanent part of the tub. It sickened him that none of it was washing down the drain.

He shed all his clothing but his socks, refusing to tread naked on the rancid floor. The shower felt absolutely wonderful; it was exactly what his sore muscles needed to unwind. His beaten skin accepted the steaming water with open arms, enveloping the photographer in a pool of comfort. The water shed the layer of filth from his flesh. He felt ten pounds lighter, and the steam trip calmed his senses.

The knifelike yowls of a cat seeped through the wall; Henry started. "Great," he said to himself as he shampooed his hair, "looks like the fridge is restocked."

Poor Eileen, unable to feel what he was feeling. If only she could go through the holes like he could. Her company pacified his misery, in turn stirring his violence against monsters. Those beasts that emerged from hell's fire-and-ice pools of absolute poison would fall by his hand, whether he decided to cap them thirty times or swiftly cut their stomachs open with the box cutter.

Henry turned off the water and stepped out of the tub, socks squishing. He plodded into his room and threw his socks on the floor. The clean towels were in his dresser. Victoriously finding one, he wrapped it around his waist and rubbed his hair a few clumsy times, shaking water out of the brown locks.

"Time to exorcise," he said unenthusiastically, going back to the hall. The refrigerator door was hanging open, with blood dripping out of it. Henry opened his item chest and pulled out a Holy Candle and a lighter. It was kind of funny how such a holy talisman could be activated by earthly fire. He walked over to the counter and peered over it. Yup, there was his present. A dead cat half-hanging from his fridge, eyes open in fear and surrounded by blood décor. Henry placed the candle on the counter and lit it, not wanting to venture near the cat. Being around the unnatural happenings in his apartment weakened him. He clearly remembered throwing up after spending a full five minutes trying to open his item chest for a Saint Medallion to get rid of baby faces that had sprouted from the wall above the chest.

The candle burned out quickly, but the cat eventually disappeared with the blood. Harry checked his candle supply, noticing with disdain that he was running out. Habitually, he glanced at the door, thinking for one wild second he could don his coat, leave, and drive to the local tarot café and pick up a dozen.

He walked over to the door. "Don't Go Out!!!" Walter warned. _Like I can really leave, _the photographer thought bitterly. The peephole lured him; perhaps something interesting was taking place right outside that flimsy wooden door. With a longing lurch forward, he pressed his eye against the peephole. Immediately he fell back with a strangled cry.

On the other side of the door was the crazed killer himself, the maniacal bastard who tormented him and Eileen with laugh and gun alike. He was standing _right outside the room, _a thoughtful smile on his grizzly face.

_What the hell is he doing here?! _Henry thought, panicked. His first plan of action was to grab his pistol, thirty bullets, the aluminum bat, and as many medical kits as he could carry. In the middle of gathering materials, a strange comfort overtook him. Walter Sullivan couldn't possibly get into his room. If he could, he'd have gone in a long time ago to murder him. He could only access Henry in the worlds. Everything would be fine. Walter couldn't even see him.

Again he approached the door, looking through the peephole. The bastard was still there, standing patiently as if he was waiting to be let in. _The hell I'd let you in, you nasty fuck._

**XxXxXx**

Oh dear. Henry wasn't pleased with his visit. How little his appalled reaction affected Walter, who merely kept on watching the man scurry around Mother. Walter let out a low chuckle when the man let down his guard to come to the door again. How ignorant the minds of other were, thinking that they were secure forever in the abodes that wrapped them in blankets and love. But Mother, oh, Mother loved Walter more. She wanted Henry out of her, and Walter wanted the same thing, for Mother knew best. He had not come to visit Mother this time around, he was sorry to admit. No, a strange desire had urged him to lay eyes on the tortured man on the other side of the door.

Walter had grown up in confinement, and was subjected to various tortures that brought tears to his eyes when he thought of them. Along with these tortures, a feeling was instilled in him that was different from the simple pleasures. It required two persons, and was called by society, sex. Walter did not think it would have an effect on him, for it was a nice thing, but he hardly thought anyone in the world deserving of its feeling. Women asked for it all too much, thirsting for the addictive rapture, not understanding the true, wonderful meaning of it. Likewise, men gave it away too much, too impassioned to conquer their natural instincts.

But Henry...Henry was a conservative man, like the humans were modeled to be. Walter observed him quite often, and never did he see the man's hand satisfy his desires, though he must have held a strong yearning for Miss Galvin. He was pure, and Walter was pure. He was saddened a little that Mother was so set on taking him only. Perhaps she'd someday see the beauty in Henry's quiet altruism.

Yes, Henry was beautiful. His body was exposed to him, all but his penis. The man's body was built well, but he lacked muscle. There were scrapes, cuts, slashes, burns, and bruises patterned all over his flesh. Walter felt himself throb and he smiled happily. Henry had been through so much, he had survived everything, and he had taken Reborn with him.

Walter imagined Henry sprawled on the floor in front of him, his blood, woven with purity, leaking into the floors of Mother and washing her over with happiness. He felt no remorse for wanting to kill a man who embodied what Walter loved. Henry was too good for the world, which would just destroy what was good in him. He deserved to die in Mother's arms, and be taken to Paradise.

Not today, though. Reborn was next; Henry was his final Sacrament.

**XxXxXx**

Walter wouldn't leave. Henry grew nervous and backed away from the door. He didn't know why he was so disturbed by the man's presence. It could be because of the man's aggression towards him and Eileen in the worlds, and even at home there he was.

For now, Henry decided to gather his wits and enter the hole to meet back up with Eileen. That is, after he put on some clothes. He put the pistol down on the item chest and headed towards his bedroom.

A man's hysterical laughing pervaded the hall. Henry froze, his blood turning to ice. Walter's signature laugh had invaded his home. The horrifying aspect of it was that it wasn't coming from outside the door.

It was right next to him.

Henry, failing to shake his fear from his body, turned his gaze to the wall. A hole had appeared, noiselessly and now flaunting its presence with Walter's hysterics. He cursed himself that he put down his weapon, and screamed when darkness snaked out of hell's transporter, wrapping around him and pulling him roughly into the void.

Everything was black, and then grey, and then white.

When Henry opened his eyes, he found himself in a prison cell. Thick, heavy chains were wrapped around his ankles, wrists, and neck. His wrists were bound above his head, and he felt pitiful with his only armor a feeble towel that was barely hugging his thighs.

The walls around him were dilapidated and the room was overall humid; he felt himself start to sweat in a second. It was an unfamiliar cell, for they didn't resemble the tight quarters of the water prison.

It was eerily quiet, except for the occasional cell door creaking, which made Henry mad with paranoia. He struggled against the unbreakable bonds, cursing himself for being a fool for not immediately retreating back to the Hospital, back to Eileen.

_Very...fucking...pathetic of you, Henry, _he chided inwardly. _The safest place for you is where the monsters can rip you to pieces. _

Another cell door screeched. His eyes began to tear up in frustration and fear; who knew what would come to kill him? A ghost could rip itself from the wall at any moment. He'd either die of asphyxiation or heart failure. Maybe Walter would pop open the cell door and shoot him a few times, once in the arm for pain, once in the balls just to deface him, and finally end his suffering with a bullet to the brain.

Again, Henry feebly twisted his wrists to somehow try and miraculously break from his bonds. He had never woken up in such terror before. Was he really going to _die? _The thought of death was the most frightening thing he could think of. To live that last moments of his life in utter hell and struggle through it to just be beaten into its sulfurous, blood-filled pits was a disgusting way to die.

_Help me, Eileen, _he begged, _help me, somebody...Frank, God, ANYBODY! I don't...I don't want to die...please..._

The cell door opened. His vision shot up to behold who had opened the door. An optimistic part of him was sure it was Eileen, but when reality sunk in, he knew it couldn't possibly be her. She could have never made it out of the Hospital herself.

It was Walter.

He stood in the torch light of the cell, looking at Henry like he a masterpiece in an art museum. Like at his front door, Walter was patiently observing Henry, who immediately started to struggle against his bonds viciously, letting out grunts of pain and whimpers of fear.

Henry paled when Walter began to walk towards him, brown shoes crunching against the cell floor. His pace was steady, yet eager. The photographer squirmed furiously, the chains rattling.

"Beautiful little Receiver." He spoke calmly, with relish at Henry's pathetic state. He began a slow journey to the bonded man, his sunken stare full of hunger and amazement. "A rare gem in this world of rocks, my beautiful Henry. Beautiful, beautiful man..." He repeated the word in a mantra, reaching out to touch Henry's beaten, but smooth, flesh.

Henry twitched when the killer's cold fingertips grazed him. A tear ran down his face and hit Walter's rough touch. He looked up at him. "Henry, don't cry. Little Receiver, you shouldn't stain your face with sorrow, it's unbecoming. You were made for being happy. So please..."

The photographer shook, huffing in fear and squirming powerfully. "You're telling me to be happy? You shot me back there!"

Walter's eyes flicked up to his shoulder. With a laugh, he took Henry's cheek in his hand, moving close to his face. "Of course I did, boy."

Chains shot through the wall, ripping through Henry's skin and erupting through both sides of his gut. He screamed, choking in pain, as the chains looped up to his shoulder pads and pierced them, the chains sinking back into the wall and pulling his beaten person against it, his cheek scratched deeply from being thrust past Walter's unkempt, jagged nails.

Henry's screams echoed around the cell. Tears poured from his eyes uncontrollably at the pain erupting from his shoulders and gut. Through the blur, he noticed Walter pull out his gun, and he nearly blacked out in fear. "Oh god," he begged, sobbing, "please don't, Walter, god no..."

The killer paid no attention to his pleas. "This is how you will die, Receiver," he said calmly. "You will be subdued, torn and writhing in despair. You will pray for another world where you can be happy. I will be your angel, Henry, I will take you to Paradise." He cocked the gun and placed the barrel right at Henry's chest.

Henry broke out in cold sweat, eyes dilating and losing all bodily control. His muscles contracted and his voice broke, making only wet, incoherent sounds. Terror filled every inch of him, his legs shook and he cried heavily. He couldn't even beg for mercy, no, he was too afraid. To think Walter was going to slaughter him after all that running. Everything was for nothing. He didn't want to die, god why was this going to happen?

Walter shot the gun.

There was silence.

Henry was still sobbing soundlessly, still alive, still out of his mind in fear. He felt the gun's cold, smooth barrel move down his chest. It caught his towel, which fell to the floor uselessly. The gun's head grazed down Henry's flaccid length. It twitched and Walter stored the gun away, eyes trained on his revealed sex.

"Receiver," he began, "I did not come to kill you...I came for a more pleasurable purpose. It has been too long, and I am lusting."

His hand moved down to Henry's length and gripped it. With a surprised yell, Henry stared at him. "What the hell are you doing?!" He started struggling again, concerned with the notion that Walter had taken him for _that._ It was impossible—Walter was a heartless bastard, he would never be concerned with lust. Right?

More pain coursed through his beaten body. Spikes ejected themselves from the chains around his wrists and ankles, burying themselves deep inside his flesh. He cried out from the sudden attack as the chains collaring him tightened.

As if nothing had happened, Walter's hand remained on his cock, and started to pump it up and down, watching his face expectantly. A shock jolted through him and Henry gasped, writhing against the chains, succeeding only in digging the spikes further into his flesh. He felt his length start to harden under Walter's rough hand. His heart began to beat quicker, despite already pounding in his chest from prior torture.

"Oh god..." Henry whimpered, "You're a sick bastard..." he started gasping, his body heating up from the jerky movements of Walter's hand. He felt dapples of pleasure erupt in him, despite the stinging pain of the chains and spikes.

"It pains me that you think so, Henry. You're possibly the only one in this diseased world that can control your natural self and keep from reverting into a sex-hungry beast. Even with Eileen's soft, delicious flesh close to you, and her whorish dress that clings tightly to her, propping her breasts up for your enjoyment and framing her rear...you still refuse to touch her in any way other than comforting, a gentle hug or a pat on the shoulder. It's a wonderful sight..."

Walter continued his exploits, Henry's cock now fully erect in his hand and twitching from the pleasure that was stemming from his pumps. Henry shook and small moans pushed through the watery sobs, permeating the hellish air.

He moved his scraggly face up to Henry's, so close that he could feel the man's bristles scratching against his own stubble. He was reaching into his pocket, for what Henry couldn't see for the man's body obscured his view. Walter's breath was hot on his lips. Henry wanted to move, but the chains prevented him from twisting his neck without choking. He was stuck submitting to the killer in his playtime.

Walter pressed his scabbed lips up to Henry's, his tongue brushing in between and wetting their kiss. Under his waist, Henry was still being assaulted skillfully by Walter's hand, his cock starting to smear pre-cum on his flesh. He trembled from the feeling as Walter's tongue slithered in between his teeth, swirling with the victim's dormant tongue.

His kiss was so...gentle. Henry didn't understand. His hand was fast and relentless on his cock, but when it came to his mouth he treated Henry carefully, like he was handling a porcelain doll.

The heat burning his body increased and he gasped behind Walter's kiss, lower half trembling. The killer's saliva-coated tongue explored Henry's open mouth eagerly, tickling the roof of his mouth and playing with his unwilling tongue. His hand sped up, fingers squeezing Henry's fleshy head and causing him to spasm, lurching forward a little despite the restraints. His eyelids fell halfway and white bursts of pleasure danced in front of his pupils. His moans were muffled as he burst into orgasm, cum shooting out onto the killer's hand and clothing.

His pleasure trip was interrupted harshly by a searing pain in his chest. He screamed, teeth clenching down on Walter's tongue. The man withdrew from Henry and laughed a little, spitting blood out of his mouth.

A knife was sticking out of Henry's chest, not deep enough to kill but deep enough to cause blinding pain. A fresh wave of tears erupted from him, and Walter gripped the knife while licking cum off his hand.

"God, what the hell are you DOING?!" the photographer screamed. Walter ignored him and ran the blade down his flesh, carving into it without any notice of his screeches and wails. When he was finished about two minutes later, Henry felt blood warmly running down his naked skin. Casting a tear-filled eye on the bloody knife, he noticed in the reflection the numbers 21121.

_Oh god...I'm his final victim. I...I forgot...how could I have...been so stupid?! _

Walter threw the knife aside, and with a smile, gripped his thighs while pressing against his blood-stained body. His pants slid down a little, releasing his own erect member which pressed into Henry's cock.

"There's no worry, Henry. You can't die today. Reborn comes before Receiver. I'm just reminding you of where you stand. You're the special one, Henry...you will purify Mother, and your reward is eternal bliss. Doesn't that sound nice, Henry?"

He positioned his cock in between Henry's legs, moving him forward and up slightly. The spikes raked against something inside him, and Henry winced, feeling Walter's head against his asshole.

"Walter...please, no..." he begged, crying, "Please don't, god, just let me go, you son of a bitch, please..."

Once again paying no attention, Walter thrust into him, his six inches burying inside of Henry, who cried out in surprise and pain. He started struggling instinctively when Walter began thrusting inside of him, but only accomplished in causing even more injury.

Walter shuddered in pleasure. "Henry, you're so good," he cooed. "I bet you don't even look at pornography. You've never visited a strip club, have you? You've never even had sex."

Henry gave no reply to his claims and questions. He merely shut his eyes, trying to block everything out. He pretended nothing was happening to him, that he was in his room or with Eileen, keeping her safe and far away from the sick killer.

But Walter's thrusts would not let him sink into his dream world. Instead, every movement of his hips reminded the photographer that he was indeed in a prison cell, chained and spiked to the wall with a brand bubbling up blood on his chest and a killer's cock inside him, relentlessly pumping in and out while said killer moaned.

Once again, Henry's body started to heat up as Walter's head spurted pre-cum, slicking up his ass and making each thrust smooth and comfortable. He gripped the member tightly, unwillingly, and instead of the burning sensation he had started with, pleasure was rippling over him.

Walter ravaged him, groaning happily, and he kissed Henry again. This time is was more forceful, his tongue demanding to be fought, and Henry obliged timidly, swirling around Walter's tongue and pushing it back, only to be beaten to the side and held there while his mouth was explored. Henry could taste the coppery flesh where he had bitten Walter, but didn't dare consider doing it again.

Henry's hands curled into fists as ecstasy crawled up his bones and muscles, relaxing him. Cries started to escape his throat and Walter removed his mouth, moving down and licked his chest, gathering the droplets of blood on the tip of his tongue and drinking them, all the while still thrusting.

"You deserve some relief before your death," the killer spoke. "You should have happiness in life before you achieve perfection in death." He leaned up and licked Henry's ear.

Henry moaned in reply, cheeks flushed and vision blurry. A wild thought ran through his head that he _was _in Paradise, and prayed for this amazing feeling every day. He twitched and remembered his situation, but it was too late. His body hungrily accepted Walter's fucking, and he feebly bucked his ass against the cock.

Walter ground his hips into Henry's, smiling at his rapture-written face. The Receiver looked so carefree, never had he seen the man cry out that like or even have a face so content as his was now. He wrapped his arms around Henry, moving under the chains and bounced his helpless body up and down on his throbbing member, relishing in the victim's moans.

The sight was too much. Seeing Henry sweat and twitch, obediently accepting his member, his eyes half-closed, his lips full, and his breathy gasps hot, made Walter cum, filling Henry up with the sticky fluid.

He removed himself from Henry and stepped back, eyes raking his broken, used body against the wall, like a painting of bliss and seduction. Henry had fainted, his head held up by the chains. Cum dripped down the back of Henry's legs, snaking on his flesh, while 21121 shone on his chest with blood and saliva.

"So beautiful..." Walter whispered in awe. "...So, so beautiful. I hope your death is as beautiful as you look now, Henry...dear, dear, Henry."

He continued watching the sleeping man for a long time, before a hole opened up behind him.

"...Sleep...in your only memory."

**XxXxXx**

Henry woke with a strangled yell, shooting up and clutching himself, heart pounding. He no longer felt tired. Now, he was exhausted. A recall of Walter's horrific assault played over and over in his head. He hit himself to stop the replay, but only gave himself a pain to couple with his burning shoulders, gut, and chest.

He looked down at his body, and his hopes that everything had been a dream were dashed.

He was completely naked. His shoulders and gut had chain burns crusted with blood on both sides of his flesh. 21121 was marked across his chest. He felt the cuts. They were smooth on his skin, as if the numbers were on him since he had been born.

He felt his neck and looked at his reflection in the window. Chain burns were noticeable there as well, circling his neck like he had worn a collar...like he had been Walter's pet, plaything, prisoner.

Without a word, he stood up, rear aching. He went to his drawers and clothed himself, crying softly from frustration and fear. He wiped his eyes, knowing he couldn't collapse on Eileen. She was still waiting for him. If he didn't hurry up, Walter would...

Would Walter rape Eileen before he killed her?

Henry didn't want to think about it.

His head started to pound suddenly. He clutched it, feeling nauseous. _Another fucking haunting? _Henry was not in the mood to purify his house. He just wanted to be with Eileen, even though he could never tell her about his lapse in strength and the results.

He looked up at the picture of the Silent Hill church, expecting to see Walter, as that was the haunting's normal symbol. He shrieked and fell back on his bed, surprised at the illustration before him.

It was himself, chained against a wall, asleep. His sleeping face was kept up from the thick set of chains collaring his neck. His arms were above his head, with blood dripping down his wrists, and his bloody ankles were tied together with his legs opened. His length was erect and shining with pre-cum as chains looped into his gut and shoulders, pressing him against the wall. White globs of liquid swirled around his legs. The numbers 21121 stared at him, mocking his current state.

Henry screamed in frustration and left the room, grabbing a holy candle and his lighter. He didn't want to see what he had looked like during his rape, he wanted to forget about it, bury it behind all the hell he had been through and instead bring up memories like killing those disgusting baby creatures in the water prison and accidentally treading over one of its heads, breaking open its head like a pumpkin.

He set the candle down and lit it, sitting on his bed and burying his head in knees, shaking in anger and weakness, sobbing. The candle burned bright, wax melting quickly as usual.

When he looked up after the candle burned out, the scene was still there. Henry whimpered, choking back tears, and left the room.

It was always going to be there. He would never get rid of that moment. Walter would haunt him in a new way, now. Henry would go through the worlds with Eileen, expecting to find him at every corner, expecting him to grab Henry, thrust him against a wall, and show him how weak and depraved he was. Walter's torture was branded into his mind as 21121 was branded on his chest.

It was his only place to fall asleep in.

**XxXxXx**

My first Silent Hill fic. A one-shot, but my longest yet! I'm really proud of it. I didn't expect it to turn out so long; it's 12 pages in Word! Yay! Notice how I snuck in some song lyrics from the series, maybe you can catch them!

I love Silent Hill, and my boyfriend bought me The Room for Chanukkah. I immediately started playing it, and fell in love with Henry straight away. He's very different from Harry, James, and Heather. He's quiet, yes, but he's more artsy and altruistic than James, more mature than Heather, and more tortured than Harry, who also starred in a game that didn't revolve around him.

I also fell for Walter. He's such a psycho, but you can't help but feel sorry for him. I tried to implement his lack of the word "mine" and his love for his Mother as best I could, while making his reasons to lust for Henry realistic. I hope didn't make the fic too far-fetched, because I could see Walter molesting Henry. I don't think I could see him molest Eileen, though...

Until next fic,

JadeCrescent Fallen


End file.
